The Fellowship of Doom
by Draco Cake
Summary: UTTER CRACK. This is a story about a girl suddenly halved, four unsuspecting famous individuals, a fellowship of nine doomed to be thirteen, and a world turned down-upside. Er, upside down. Believe in the rationally impossible!
1. Right and Left and Separated

_**A/N**: Everything in this story is rationally impossible. Enjoy the wild, wild ride._

* * *

It was a cloudy, grey day and I was seriously bored. I was sulking in my tiny blue room that no matter how hard I imagined, never turned pink like I wanted it to. Ugh. Boring... My eye fell on my plain black notebook and swirly blue pen. Oh, why not. I grabbed them and flipped to a new page, then sat staring. What should I write?

"I know," I told the second half of myself. "I'm sending you to Middle-Earth."

"Why me?" whined my second half. "Why can't you go?"

My first half rolled her eyes. "No, dummy, I'm the left-side half. I inhabit the left side of our brain which means I got all the creativity, and you got the smarts. Which means I stay and you go." Before my left side could stop my right side, she picked up the pen and began to write.

My left side self found herself suddenly in the middle of nowhere. My right side self, now naming herself Author Most Supreme, had thoughtfully wrote a crazy suit of clothes on me. Hot pink jeans, black studded boots, a ruffly white top, and a neon green leather jacket with my name '_Ameena'_ in pink rhinestones across the back. In one hand I held a gun, in the other a makeup bag. On my wrist was a watch, and she'd kindly grown my hair all the way to my knees and given it huge waves. She'd changed my eye colour to purple, and on my head she wrote a tiara with enormous, genuine, Canadian diamonds.

Lovely. Shrugging, I strode off towards Hobbitton.

Little did I know that the Author Most Supreme was scheming to destroy the fellowship of the ring, through bad luck, by making it thriteen people instead of nine. And I was only the first...


	2. Never Say Never

_**A/N:** Now, this chapter has Justin Bieber in it. Before I begin I want to clarify that while I'm not obsessed with him, I am most certainly NOT a hater. I'm not doing this out of any dislike for him, he's just the first person that popped into my mind and he's easy to write about. So please no hate reviews! While I don't agree with him on everything (his earrings, for example) he generally has the right idea about most things (Never saying never, for example) and he's one of those rare celebrities who do a lot for charities and is generally a good person, except for some things. But no one is perfect. So please no bad reviews or PM s! Please humour me._

* * *

As if my right-side self hadn't caused enough trouble already, she decided to drop Justin Bieber right in my path. And when I say drop, I mean _drop. _I'm serious!

He came plummeting down from the heavens and landed in a heap about ten feet away from me. He remained still for a few moment, and I thought he was dead. Oh, wonderful. Now I was going to have to deal with the vengeance of 14 million or so hysterical girls who worshipped him. And the worst part was, I couldn't even explain to them that it was only half of me's fault.

How were they going to deal a slow and painful death to only my right-side half? Most people don't believe in rational impossibilities any more.

But then he moved, and stood up, adjusting his hoodie. Some of his spikes were squished flat by his fall. Lovely. Now I was going to have to deal with him as well as my crazy right-side self. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes I thought that everyone's right side was stark raving mad and the only thing that kept us all out of the insane asylum was our reasonable left sides.

Only people who believed in rational impossibilities had the misfortune of having to deal with a split personality. If you believe in impossibilities, sometimes they come true. If only to you.

"Uh...where am I?" asked Bieber. "Where's Selena?"

"You, buddy-boy, are in Middle-Earth were I have dropped you to annoy me along the way. Also, where I was dropped by myself because I was bored. Now you're stuck here with me and you have to do what I say because this is _my_ story. Get it?" I asked.

He snorted. "This isn't _your_ story, it's Tolkien's. And what's with the clown outfit and Rapunzel hair?"

I glared at him. "This isn't a clown outfit, this is an expression of my demented right-side self who dropped me here in the first place. And it's _not _Tolkien's story any more, it's _hers _and by extension, _mine._ She's technically me, and she's writing the story now and rudely sent me off here without asking. And the clothes I'm wearing right now is the clothes she wishes we could wear regularly, and the hair is what she wishes our hair could be in real life. So there."

"You mean...you're two people? Like _Gollum?_" he goggled.

I sighed. "Actually, I don't know. I mean, one person is writing the story, and one is here. I'm pretty sure there's only one body for Ameena, but one day she decided nothing was impossible and so the two sides of her brain started fighting for control. Most of the time me, the left side, wins and she remains sane. But once I slipped and the right side took control. She went crazy." I shook my head in sorrow.

"What happened?" Bieber was interested.

"Oh, she started laughing her head off at absolutely nothing and gushing over a picture of a small rice cooker with eyes," I replied.

"Weird," said Bieber. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen," I replied. "And so are you."

"No, I'm eighteen!" he protested.

I'd had enough. First my right-side self had sent me off to Middle-Earth without my permission, then she'd sent along this...this complete _boy _to annoy me, and now the boy wouldn't listen! So I marched up to him, seized the front of his hoodie, and shook him, _really hard._ "What did I just tell you?" I screeched. "This is _my _story, _my _rules, _me!_ Even if I'm kinda two people, I'm essentially one person, so I'm writing this, _I'm_ dictating what goes on and_ I_ say what everyone does cuz it's _MY STORY!_"

"All right, fine!" yelled Bieber, and, just like that, he turned fourteen again. That meant his hair smoothed down again and grew back into his old cut with the side-swept bangs that made him look like a collie except blonde. But he still had his earrings. Okay, I could live with that.

"Good, now move it, buddy-boy!" I ordered.

"First of all, I don't take orders from people who are one person but actually two, and second, move it where?" he asked.

I stomped my foot. "Look, buddy-boy, I told you a million times already, THIS IS MY STORY YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME and second, you WILL move it to Hobbiton with me cuz I SAY SO!"

"Don't wanna!" pouted Bieber. "I wanna go back and hang out with my girlfriend (who's taller than me)!"

I started forward to haul him by his belt, but stopped when I realized that I probably shouldn't touch his belt, because his pants were hanging so low they would fall down. And I did NOT need to see that.

So I opened my makeup bag (Which my right-side self had thoughtfully made a _mag__ic _bag, anything I wanted I could pull out no matter what it was) and pulled out one of those ridiculous flat-rimmed caps he always wore, and plopped it on his head. Then I grabbed the visor to pull him along, and for some reason it worked and he came quietly. I could practically see in my mind's eye the twisty blue pen scooting along the paper as fast as my right-side self's hand could move it. Thank Heavens she was at least good for _something._

"Now march, buddy-boy," I said. "And act smart. We're late. And for heaven's sake pull up your pants!"


	3. Canada's Darling

_**A/N**: I don't hate the person in this chapter either okay? But I do hate mean reviews. Please be nice!_

* * *

We hadn't even reached Hobbiton before my right-side self decided to drop another person down. Who should it be this time but Canada's absolute darling himself, Sidney Crosby.

Now, for all you non-Canadians (or Canadians who have committed the capital offence of not liking hockey) Sidney Crosby is the hockey player on Team Canada who snatched the gold right out from under Team America's nose at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.

And because of that, the entirety of Canada worships him. I mean, I'm grateful to him and everything (I would just _die_ if we couldn't be the best at our own sport) but what about the rest of Team Canada? They deserve recognition too! I mean, if they just plopped him on the ice by himself against the Americans...well, things wouldn't have been as good, would they? Even if he is a pretty darn good hockey player.

Anyway, he dropped down from the sky just like Bieber, but, unlike Bieber, he landed on his feet. He had on his Pittsburgh Penguins uniform (that's the team he plays on while he's waiting for the Olympics to come around…if he's not suffering from a concussion at the time) and that included his skates. I was impressed. This guy had excellent balance! Then I remembered that he was just another guy to put up with, and I wasn't so thrilled anymore.

Bieber and I stopped walking. Crosby looked at us for a few moments, then started laughing. And laughing. And laughing. Pretty soon he was laughing so hard, he was doing the thing where you're laughing so hard, you're not making a single sound. Lovely. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot impatiently.

"Well, are you done?" I asked.

"Ah..." he gasped, still laughing. "A long-haired girl...with weirdo eyes...and waves in her hair the size of...Mount Everest!" he kept on laughing. "...in a crazy outfit...dragging along...Justin Bieber...by his, his _cap!_" he doubled over on the path, gasping for air.

"It's not _that_ funny!" I said, insulted and annoyed.

He just kept on laughing. I looked at Bieber. He shrugged. I'd had enough. I stomped over to where Crosby knelt, STILL LAUGHING, grabbed his arm, and tried to pull him up. But he was so heavy he wouldn't budge. Well, I figured hockey players _would _be heavy, but...I was exasperated! So I kicked him and tried to haul him up once more. He wouldn't move.

"You're _FAT!_" I yelled.

Bieber snickered.

"Fat?" asked Crosby. He poked my stomach with his finger, and part of it disappeared. "_F__at?"_

"You—you stupid, pathetic—" I was so mad I couldn't think straight. I mean, I always knew I was too soft and sticky-out to be considered _skinny_, but I wasn't _fat_! "Argh! Just..._STAND UP ALREADY!"_ I screeched so loudly, a few leaves fell off the surrounding trees.

He smirked. "Okay, okay, I'm getting up. Keep your hair on. Or maybe..." he shot a glance at my crazy hair. "Don't!"

I swung my fist to pop him a big one and hopefully leave a huge purple bruise, but he jumped up and out of the way. "Missed," he laughed.

"Oh, go die somewhere," I snapped.

"Go die somewhere?" he raised his eyebrows. "Yes ma'am! Will Mordor be agreeable to your majesty?"

"Oh—" I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Idiot.

"I'll take that as a yes," Crosby sarcastically saluted me and marched off in the direction of Mordor. Oh heck. If that guy died, Canada would kill me. And this time it would be me, the left-side self's fault. Well, technically both of ours, 'cuz the right side sent him here and the left side sent him to Mordor and death. But...oh, whatever! The bottom line was, I _had_ to stop this dude.

"Wait, wait," I raced after him. "Stop, you'll get killed!"

"Isn't that what you want?" Crosby didn't stop. He was still wearing his skates and helmet and still carrying his stick. And he wouldn't stop. Idiot! It suddenly occurred to me that maybe his age wasn't the only reason they called him Sid the Kid. He was behaving like one too. Oh god. If I believed in swearing, I'd be doing it right now like you wouldn't believe.

I seized his arm, planted my feet, and leaned all my weight backwards. If I'd thought that would make a difference, it didn't. He continued walking on to Mordor, dragging me behind him. Darn it! Darn it! Darn it all to you-know-where! When I become the queen of the world, the first thing I'm going to do is make a law that says that hockey players can't be stronger than me! And if they are...well, they're just going to have to have their muscles ripped out, aren't they.

"Bieber, help!" I screamed. Bieber dashed over and latched on to me, but it only slowed Crosby. Only slowed. And still Crosby kept on going. So I kicked him, really hard, in a _most sensitive _area. He gasped in pain and fell down. Well, at least he wasn't getting any closer to Mordor.

"Look," he said when he could finally speak again. "First you tell me to go to Mordor, then stop me? What kind of person are you?"

"I'm _two_ people," I grabbed him and tried to pull him up again. Naturally he wouldn't budge. "Come on, you're making us late. I'll tell you on the way."

"Excuse me?" asked Crosby. "And exactly what makes you think I'm coming with you?"

I let go of his arm and flopped down next to him. "Well, let's see," I said. "You're in _my_ story, _I_ sent you here,so _I_ say what everyone does, _and that includes you!_"

He just looked at me.

"And that's why I think, no, I _know_ you'll be coming with us." I finished.

"Us?" he tipped his head towards Bieber in question.

"Uh, yeah...I wrote him here too, and he listens to me, _don't you_?" the last part was addressed in a pointed tone to Bieber, who ignored me. Oh god, was no one on my side?

"If he listens to you so well, why are you dragging him along by his cap?" asked Crosby.

"Uh...well...um," I was at a loss for what to say. "Um, never mind. As I said before, _WE ARE LATE!" _I screamed the last part out at the top of my lungs.

Crosby and Bieber winced at my scream. "Late for what?" asked Crosby.

I sighed. "Bilbo Baggins' 111th birthday party, obviously," I said.

"Um, you might have _said _that," complained Bieber. "Instead of dragging me along all the way by my cap."

"Oh, shut up, Bieber," I had bigger problems.

"Well, you're going." Crosby got up again and started off in the exact opposite direction of Hobbiton. "I'm not. I was just practising with the rest of my team back at Earth when all of the sudden I was just dropped through the floor, then through a completely different sky, then I landed in Middle-Earth of all places in front of a _fat _girl and an ear-ringed boy! Who are headed off to Bilbo Baggins' 111th birthday party, and expect me to come along! And that's not all! Before they do that, they, or I should say _she_," he looked pointedly at me.

I bristled.

"Calls me fat, kick me, nearly render me deaf, tries to punch me, tells me to go die somewhere, then tries to stop me from doing _exactly_ what she asked, tries to pull me over, kicks me _again,_ and then orders me to Bilbo Baggins' 111th birthday party? Uh, no. I don't get ordered around by little pipsqueaks in clown outfits, and I _most certainly _don't get ordered around by little pipsqueaks in clown outfits who do all of the above. So, bye. Have a nice day!" He continued walking off.

"No—" I was desperate. All of the sudden an idea popped into my head. _Oh please let it work. _"Wait!" I said. I caught up to him. "Just give me your hockey stick for a second," I held out my hands.

He regarded me with narrowed eyes. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh...just...gimmie!" I grabbed the hockey stick and leaned backwards. Don't know why I bothered, though, remembering the first two times. But he relinquished his grip on the stick. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Um..." I knelt by the edge of the path with his stick in my hands. Come to think of it, I didn't know what I was going to do, only what I wanted the result to be. I concentrated on the stick.

This was my chance. My chance to prove that I was indeed in control of the story. My chance to prove to others as well as myself, that this was truly_ my _story. That _I_ was in control. That _I _was dictating events. That everyone had to do what _I _said.

That I was only one person.

"Oh, come on, come on, come on..."I muttered. The stick remained perfectly normal. Oh heck. How was I going to explain this? "Uh, right-side self?" I murmured. "A little help here?"

After all, she was the one with the pen. She was the one who was truly dictating everything. As the other half of herself, I had influence over her decisions but not complete control. Oh bother. Bother and a half. Bother and three quarters. Two bothers.

Then the blade of the stick began to shimmer. And wiggle slightly. Oh my gosh...I nearly stopped breathing. My right-side self was cooperating! I concentrated harder. A silver sheen began creeping over the stick. I nearly died. _Oh, right-side self,_ I thought to her._ If you do this I'll let you have control at parties when we get back!_

The stick sparkled in response, and the sheen crept up until the entire stick had turned to silver. Huge diamonds blossomed on the handle and the blade sharpened to a razor-sharp edge. I stood up and held out the weapon to Crosby. "Look, I _am_ in control of the story," I said triumphantly.

He looked shocked. "What did you do to my stick?" he gasped.

"I changed it," I told him. "It's now a lethal weapon. Watch." I picked a leaf off the ground (probably one of the ones I screamed down) and dropped it on the upturned blade of the stick. The leaf floated down through the air, but as soon as it touched the blade, it got cut in half. Such was the sharpness of a former hockey stick turned lethal weapon.

Crosby and Bieber both looked amazed. I smiled and held the stick out further to Crosby.

"If you come with us, I'll give it to you," I promised him.

"All right, I'm coming with you," agreed Crosby, and I surrendered the stick.

"Well," I said. "For the fifty millionth time—"

"We're late," chorused Crosby and Bieber.

"That's right," I sighed. "Come on then." I grabbed Bieber by his cap and Crosby by the chinstrap of his helmet, and we set off for Hobbiton once more.

But if I thought it was going to be as simple as that, I was wrong. For the twisty blue pen continued writing.


	4. Too Cool For You

We stayed normal for a few minutes, but my right-side self thinks normal is unacceptable. With a smug flourish of the swirly blue pen she sent yet another person plummeting down to Middle-Earth to plague me. And this time it was extra weird.

George Washington landed flat on his back on the path to Hobbiton. Like Bieber, he remained still for a few moments, but unlike Bieber, he landed on his back instead of his front. Then he stood up, straightening his specs.

"Yo," he said.

Crosby, Bieber and I were speechless. I was pretty sure 'yo' wasn't even a word at Washington's time. What was going on here?

Then I noticed that at instead of his usual heeled boots, Washington wore a pair of neon purple Converse with bright green laces. Okay then. I was shocked.

But Bieber found his voice and asked, "Uh, what's with the Converse, prez?"

I winced. You don't address the first president of America as 'prez'! But Washington didn't seem to mind.

Instead, he beamed at us. "Gotta keep up with the times, yo!" he answered.

"Yeah," Crosby smirked. "Like her." he gestured towards me. Or at my 'clown outfit' specifically.

"Oh shut up Kid," I said. He ignored me.

"That's right, dawg," cheered Washington. "You tell 'er! You don't take no stuff from no—" (I won't even tell you what he said here) "—in duds so bright you go blind! Geez girl, you're trying too hard. I mean, the boots, okay, the jacket, I get, and maybe the jeans. But what's with the pathetic wig and insane contacts? And the trashy princess tiara with fake jewels just screams '_wannabe'_!"

I was so furious I tried to say five million not-so-nice stuff at once so they all got tangled and none of them ended up coming out. And Crosby and Bieber were looking at me.

"You know," said Bieber slowly. "I think the prez has a point."

Crosby rolled his eyes. "Of course he has a point, and a really good one, too. Wow buddy, you're dumb. You just figured that out now?"

Bieber looked insulted, Crosby satisfied, and Washington...well, pathetic. I must have looked really, really, _really,_ REALLY, _REALLY_ mad. I opened my mouth to give all three of them heck, but never got around to it as Bieber leaned in closer and squinted at my face.

"Wow," he said. "Crosby, prez, come look at this!" They all stared at me. Then Crosby raised his eyebrows and Washington said, "Colour changing contacts? You try too hard!"

What the—colour changing? Oh dear. I think my right-side self got bored so she changed my eye colour in the middle of the story. "What are they now? Pink? Yellow?" I asked.

"No," said Bieber. "Red"

I was stunned. "R—red?" I gasped.

"Yeah," laughed Crosby. "Red. As in blood. Apples. Cherries. Lava. Fire. Roses. Peppers. Paprika. Strawberries. Sunsets. Tomatoes. The Washington Capital's uniform colour. And so on."

I was too shocked and dismayed to point out that not all apples, fire, roses, peppers, sunsets, or tomatoes were red, and that the Washington Capitals (they're another hockey team) also have blue on their uniforms. But I got the general message. Red. Red! _Red! RED!_

"They're fading now," reported Bieber. "Fading slowly...pink now...purple now...back to normal."

"If you can call that normal," sniggered Crosby. "My guess is your eyes turn red when you're mad."

Oh lovely. Really lovely. What else had my right-side self planned for me? Hair that turned blue and pointed skyward when I laughed? I was seriously reconsidering letting her have control at parties.

"Anyway," I marched up to Washington bossily. "We are late. We are beyond late. In fact, we are so late we should get going now. So come along, all three of you!"

Crosby and Bieber followed me, and Washington began to, but a scribble of the swirly blue pen soon put a stop to _that._

"'Scuse me? Come along where?" asked Washington.

Bieber and Crosby stopped. I sighed and turned around. "I really don't have time to explain for a third time precisely why you are going to listen to me. Just do it, okay?"

"Absolutely not," said Washington disagreeably. "And while I'm at it, do you realize how uncool you are?"

Bieber and Crosby laughed.

I hissed.

"Your eyes are turning red again," Bieber informed me helpfully. Oh, I was going to _kill him._

I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down. "Okay...okay," I said. "Basically, Washington, I'm rewriting Tolkien's story, The Lord of the Rings. And since _I'm _writing it, _I_ say what everyone does. And I say you're coming with us to Bilbo Baggins' b-day party. Come along now."

"No," said Washington disagreeably. "I won't."

I turned to Crosby and Bieber. "Uh, a little help here?" I asked.

"No, you're doing just fine by yourself," replied Crosby. I vowed in my head to give him a nice solid whack once we got 'prez' here moving. I turned to Bieber. "And you?" I asked.

"Uh, sorry, I don't know what to do," he replied. I glared at him.

Right. I marched up to Washington. "Look here, mister," I growled. "I've already had to explain two other times to two other blockheads that _I tell everyone what to do. _And that includes you. March!"

"No, I don't believe I will," said Washington. "This 'Bilbo Baggins' sounds most uncool."

Grrr...I was ready to pound all three guys to a pulp, throw the pulp in the sea, then drain the sea, then...omigawd! All of the sudden I got an idea.

I marched up to Bieber and pulled his cap off, then showed it to Washington."This cap is the latest fashion for guys. It's _cool._" I told him.

"Cool?" asked Washington, suddenly interested.

"_Y__es_," I said."It's cool. And also hot at the same time, which makes no sense."

"Shows how much _you _know," said Washington importantly. "It's possible for something to be hot and cool at the same time. Not temperature wise. It means it's a level of coolness."

Ahem. Okay, whatever. "The point is," I told him, "That you can have this if you come with us to Hobbiton."

"Really?" asked Washington.

"Really," I said. Bieber looked happy, cuz he figured that he wouldn't be the one led any more. But if the plan worked out like I wanted it to, he would.

"On the other hand..." Washington hesitated. Oh no not now! "Look, if you come with us you can have the cap and I'll also pierce your ear when we get there. Okay?" I said.

"Pierce my ear?" asked Washington.

"Yes," I said. "Bieber, tell Washington how cool earrings are."

"They're really cool," Bieber showed Washington his studs. Washington was impressed. "Okay, I'll come," he conceded. He took off his tricorn and pulled on the cap. "How do I look?" he asked.

"Cool," said Bieber. Crosby just rolled his eyes. I picked up the tricorn from where Washington had dropped it, and plopped it on Bieber's head. "Hey!" he protested.

"Sorry, buddy-boy," I firmly gripped the front point. "But you need to be lead." With my other hand, I grabbed Crosby's chinstrap and herded Washington ahead so I could keep an eye on him. But I shouldn't have worried, cuz Washington _really _wanted the piercings. He was obsessed with being cool. And he said I was trying too hard?

So for the fourth time, we headed off to Hobbiton. Did I mention Crosby still had his skates on?


	5. We Arrive At Hobbiton

Our arrival in Hobbitton was actually very well received, despite our insane-asylum looks. The Hobbits were visibly puzzled by Crosby's uniform, curious about Beiber and Washington's, and kind of alarmed at mine, especially my jeans. They'd never seen a girl in pants before! Provided I was a girl, of course...but when Crosby told them, "Excuse anything she might say or do. She's insane, you see." they nodded wisely and looked at me with wonder, sympathy and slight awe, even. I opened my mouth to denounce Crosby as a liar and a maniac, but then realized that he, even in his uniform, looked a whole lot more sane than I did right at the moment. So I closed my mouth and satisfied myself by thinking mean thoughts about all three of them.

Bilbo Baggins was tickled pink to have such exotic guests at his 111th birthday party. We ended up as guests as such honour, it might as well have been our 111th birthday party instead of his. Crosby, Beiber and Washington, much to my surprise, mingled and got along great with all the Hobbits. Unfortunately, it was Crosby whom they decided to ask about me, as my crossed arms and sulky glare as I sat at a table encouraged no questions. I was still seriously mad at all three idiots my infuriating right-side self had stuck me with.

"What happened to her hair?" a Hobbit asked Crosby.

"She was struck by lightning," said Crosby with an evil smile. "never been the same since."

I growled softly to myself. How dare he make up lies about me.

"Is her jacket dragon skin?" one young Hobbit asked.

"No," said Crosby bluntly. "it's cow skin."

They were impressed anyways. "But what about it's colour?" another Hobbit asked.

"Oh, that," put in Beiber. "she dipped it in the algae at the mouth of the Golden Horn in Istanbul, Turkey."

"Ooohhh," the Hobbits chorused. Seeing as they didn't live on Earth, they didn't know that it was a perfectly normal order of business to go to Turkey, Istanbul wasn't a magical land, as Beiber made it sound, and that the algae at the Golden Horn, which was neither golden nor a horn (they thought it was some sort of magical creature) didn't have any magical properties. Never mind the fact that I'd never been to Istanbul, Turkey in my entire life.

"Why does she wear pants?" a female Hobbit asked.

"It was a curse," Beiber said, mock tragically. "it happened in...Mauritania. A...powerful, um, a powerful..." his imagination fizzled out at that point.

"Sand-wizard," supplied Crosby. "a sand-wizard, yes. That's what it was. He put a curse on her. Luckily, we found a kindly water-witch who removed it, but sometimes she still feels the need to run. And the only thing that prevented her from getting away from the sand-wizard that time was her tight skirts and fifteen-foot train."

The Hobbits oohed and aahed. I gripped the end of the table in rage. I'd _never _been to Mauritania! And there were no such things as sand-wizards and water-witches!

"What's the little bent black thing she always has with her?" a little Hobbit asked.

"Oh, that's her gun," said Crosby, "you'll want to steer clear of that."

"Why?" they asked.

"It's a very powerful weapon," Crosby explained, with much more reverence and gravity than strictly required when talking about a girl who'd never shot a gun before and wasn't even sure her gun was loaded. "nothing can stop it, not even armour. It just goes right through, and it's fatal. Just one shot can kill."

The Hobbits looked shocked.

"And," pitched in Beiber. "she's very unstable, so don't anger her or she'll shoot."

"She's _mad_?" several voices rang out.

"That's right," Crosby was enjoying himself immensely. "it happened last year, on the highest tower of Barad-Dur..."

He then proceeded to tell a tale so tall and full of lies, I was speechless. He made me sound like an abandoned princess, related directly to both Sauron and Elendil at the same time, constantly waging a battle in my heart against good and evil, and full to the brim with secrets and terrible powers such as no one had ever dreamed of before. Apparently I'd been exposed to battles and the One Ring at a very early age, mastered swordfighting and sorcery at age seven, and fought terrible battles an struggles. I'd been everywhere and back, he said, from the highest peak of the Misty Mountains to the lowest tunnel of Moria. Finally, a fierce battle with the Orcs together with a bolt of lightning broke my mind, and they had to restrain me magically with a wizard holding the spell 24/7 until they got to Lothlorein, where Galadriel apparently spent a full year slowly but surely healing my mind. She used the most powerful elf-magic, he told them, and the utmost care mending my mind, but apparently all the things I'd seen an done were too much. I was just barely sane, he confided. Touched by elf-powers, I was apparently as long-lived as the heirs of Elendil. He also told them that he, Beiber and Washington were guarding me, making sure that the dark side didn't reclaim me. I was dangerous and temperamental, he said. It wasn't any fault of my own, he assured them. It was just that sometimes the memories and dark powers became too much and slipped through the cracks in Galadriel's wall, causing me to do things I'd never do in my right mind. I wasn't evil, he told them. I was just a sweet little girl overtaken by stress and horror. Apparently I wasn't responsible for my actions.

I was just about to get up and lodge all my bullets into his brain, but then I realized that such actions would only prove his lies. With a supreme effort, I pulled myself back under control, simmering angrily to myself. I was going to _kill him_...the tips of my fingers were completely white from gripping the edges of the table. I growled to myself, and was surprised to find that I sounded exactly like a cat. Great. Another thing my crazy other self did. Well, I'd had enough of them all! As soon as Frodo headed off with Sam, I'd follow them and go to Rivendell _without _Crosby, Beiber and Washington. I hated them and did _not _need them.

Slowly, my grip on the table relaxed and the colour returned to my fingers. I couldn't wait. In a few hours, I'd be rid of those idiots FOREVER!


	6. I Don't Drink!

Suddenly, someone put a plate full of food next to me with a thunk. I looked up to see Pippin grinning at me. "You look a lot better like that," he informed me. The comment caught me off guard.

"Like...what?" I asked, completely forgetting to glare.

"You know," he replied. "not glaring, eyes purple and not red. Not gripping the table, scowling or grinding your teeth. And you haven't eaten _anything_." he gestured at the plate. "go on, eat! It tastes good."

I just looked at him. He shrugged. "If you don't eat something soon, Bilbo's going to be offended, mad or not."

"I'm not mad," I muttered.

"That's what they all say," suddenly Merry appeared. "people who are mad don't usually say they're mad. And Pip's right, Bilbo's going to be offended if you don't eat. At least, if you really don't want to eat, I can get you a drink."

"Okay," I murmured, miffed that they weren't scared of me. Merry ran off and then back in a flash, and then gave me a mug of...oh, dear. Ale.

"Uh, that's not what I ment," I said, repulsed. Ale? Only losers get drunk.

"But it's so good!" Merry said. I rolled my eyes. Classic drunkard excuse.

"I'm below drinking age," I told him firmly. "and even if I wasn't, I wouldn't. I don't believe in murdering your own brain cells."

"I—what?" Merry looked blank.

I sighed. "Drink kills your brain," I said bluntly.

He laughed. "No, it doesn't. That's just nonsense. Where'd you learn that from?"

"Um...," where _did _I learn that from? It was common knowledge!

"I thought so," said Merry. "that's a lie. Drink!" He pushed the mug closer.

"I don't drink," I crossed my arms.

"You know, maybe they," he jerked his head towards Crosby and Beiber. "are right. You _are _mad!"

Grrr! I hated this! "I'm not mad!" I growled.

"Only a mad person would refuse ale," he said.

"No, only a mad person would damage his own self. Sane people don't drink." I argued. Suddenly, Beiber popped up and reached for the ale. "I'll take that," he said.

I slapped his hand. "No you won't! You're underage too!"

"I'm eighteen!" he wailed.

"You—are—fourteen!" I snarled.

Beiber pouted. "That's not fair!" he complained.

"Your mommy wouldn't like you drinking," I said.

"My mommy doesn't know," he reached for the ale again, but I grabbed it first and dumped it out on the grass. "But I do!" I said. "and anyways, it's gone now. And I have a score to settle with you, Beiber." I stood up and grabbed his arm. Merry and Pippin were still frozen with shock at what I'd done to their precious ale.

"Come on, I want to dance," I said, dragging Beiber over to where the Hobbits and Gandalf were doing just that.

"Uh...what?" Beiber was a bit scared. "this is—this is random. Why are we going to dance?"

"Because," I said with an evil laugh. "I want to."

He looked positively terrified now. "And why—why do you want to?"

"Oh, come on," I purred dangerously. "you're _Justin Beiber_, for crying out sideways. 99% of girls would kill just to _touch _you." (no need to mention that I was of the 1% who would kill_ him _for touching me without a signed authorization slip from God Himself.) "I'd be _mad..._" I lingered menacingly on the word, glaring daggers "to pass up such a chance. So move it, buddyboy." I felt my eyes turn red and growled my cat-growl. He looked like he was about to pee his pants.

Once the Hobbits saw that it was the mad, pants-wearing human and her young, earringed protector, they parted neatly (still dancing, though) to let us into the dead centre. If this was a (shudder) club, the spotlight would be on us. We started dancing. Beiber's moves were a bit stiff with fright, but I was on fire, for a purpose. I executed a perfect twirl, jabbing my elbow sharply into his stomach as I faced him again.

"Ow!" he squeaked.

"You're such a baby," I smirked, even as I stomped squarely on his toes. He gasped. "Quit it!" he squealed.

"Quit what?" I cackled as I scratched my finger deeply into his side.

"That!" he gasped as I lept, kicking him sharply in the leg.

"I'm not doing anything!" I said innocently as I threw my strength into a jab straight to the kidneys. Bullseye! Beiber collapsed onto the grass, gasping for breath. I seized his hand and abruptly yanked him up. "What are you doing, idiot? The dance isn't over yet!"

"Ahhh..." he was doubled over in pain. I jerked him around, hoping to dislocate his arm. Sadly, no such luck. I had to be satisfied with a hard pinch to the shoulder. And another kick, this time to the side of his thigh. Another stomp, a quick ear twist. A sharp jerk on his collie-bangs, a hard punch to the chest, a backhand slap. All while dancing my feet off. Need I mention that in my heels I was MILES taller than him?

As a grand finale, I kicked him sharply and precisely between the legs, perfectly in synch with the final crescendo of the music. He froze, then howled and fell in a heap on the ground, the exact moment the dance concluded.

I felt vindictive. But suddenly, as I saw him on the ground, whimpering in a mix of pain and fright, I experienced an unexpected surge of pity. I felt sorry for him. It wasn't entirely his fault he was such an idiot. I decided I'd dance the next one with him properly. I stretched out a hand to help him up.

"Come on, buddyboy, on your feet," I said softly. He ignored me. "C'mon," I coaxed. "I'm not going to hurt you, not this time."

"Yeah...right..." croaked Beiber. But he accepted my hand and hauled himself up, with substantial help from me. He stood there looking at me, eyes wide, lower lip pushed out...my heart melted. Awww, he was such a puppy dog. I nearly forgot why I'd been so mad at him in the first place. I'd definitely take it easier on him this time.

Suddenly, I heard the Hobbits murmuring anxiously and the rustle of a lot of skirts getting out of the way fast. I turned to see the cause of the disturbance. But before I could, something grabbed me suddenly under my ribs and squeezed all my breath out. I was jerked roughly off my feet, and the world turned upside down.


	7. The Dark Side Reclaims Me

I just hung there in shock. What had just happened? Was I being kidnapped? For a crazy second, I wondered if Crosby and Beiber's story might be true. Was the dark side reclaiming me? Then I dismissed the thought. That was just plain stupid. Everyone knew that Beiber and Crosby AND Washington thrown in were the biggest liars on the face of the earth.

Thing is, we weren't on Earth any more.

I could see upside down Hobbits looking slightly scared and an upside down Beiber looking really scared, but before I could see more, I was swung roughly off, the thing under my chest still severely limiting my breath. The scared Hobbits and the terrified Beiber grew slightly smaller, then I was turned back up so fast I temporarily lost my vision and was plopped into a chair, adding biting pain to my list of troubles.

When my vision cleared (my breath hadn't returned completely yet, nor had the pain from getting thrown into a chair completely receded) I saw Crosby standing over me, looking like he just heard that the Philadelphia Flyers won the Stanley Cup.

I opened my mouth to yell at him, but all that came out were some damsel-in-distress squeaks owing to the fact that I hadn't gotten my breath back yet, and he kinda looked a teeny bit scary. He hates the Philadelphia Flyers.

Slowly I choked out, "You...will...die..."

Suddenly, the thundercloud slid off his face and was replaced by a pitying smile. "Someday, I'm sure," his smile grew bigger. "sad fact of life. Unavoidable, I'm afraid." he shrugged. "Oh, well, might as well enjoy it while you can, right?"

"Yeah...well...enjoy the ten...seconds...left of...your life...as soon as...as... I get my breath back...you..you're dead..._KID..._" I gasped out.

He tutted. "Now, that's unlikely," he said. "you're a pipsqueak and I'm a man. You don't have a chance. Don't make threats you can't back, missie."

I stewed for a few seconds in my rage before I asked, "So why'd you do that? Just to prove you could?"

"No," Crosby said. "I did it because you were beating up on a poor defenceless kid."

"He's not defenceless!" I screeched. "he's a _boy _and he's four years older than me! He's just spineless!"

" 'Spineless' equals 'defenceless' " Crosby informed me. "and didn't I hear you rubbing it in his face a billion times the way over that he was-" he adjusted his voice to a whiny squeak, his best impersonation of me "-_fourteen years old_?"

"No-"

"Changing the rules to suit our needs, are we?" taunted Crosby. "you're right. He's spineless. And that completely cancels out the fact that he's eighteen. That makes it no different than you beating up a five-year-old. You're a bully."

"So are you!" I argued. "you fight all the time on ice-"

"That's different," interrupted Crosby. "they're all grown men out there. I'm equally matched."

"Well, _I'm _not a grown man," I huffed. "and you beat _me _up."

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't _beat you up_," he said. " believe me, missie, if I'd wanted to _beat you up _you would have been pulverized. I _picked you up_ and _put you down_ where you couldn't hurt Beiber. And I didn't hurt you."

"You _didn't hurt me_?!" I shrieked. "you squeezed me within an inch of my life—literally—turned me upside down, shook me, and threw me into a chair. It HURTS!"

He was unimpressed. "That's nothing," he said. "not compared to what happens to me when I play hockey, not compared to what you were doing back there to Beiber. Not compared to what thousands of poor innocent souls are facing this very minute down in Syria."

"And Burma!" I cried, furious he'd forgotten about the suffering country, and forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be arguing my case, not damning it. But it was too late.

He winked. "That's right. Innocent little kids are getting their fingernails ripped out on a mere suggestion, people are getting their brains smashed out just for asking for humane treatment, and women are getting raped just because they exist, and you're sitting here whining about a little shaking."

"I—shut up, _kid_!" I screamed, because I knew he was right. How could I compare my discomforts to little Hamza Elkhateeb's? Go on, Google him and his buddy Tamer Alsharee, and gimme a shout if you could sleep that night. Go on, I dare you. Their eleven-year-old bodies were so mutilated, it was impossible to tell what they died from. So I couldn't quite complain.

But I growled my cat-growl at him anyways. He remained unimpressed. I guessed he wasn't as easy to intimidate as Beiber. Out-argued, I slumped back in my chair. "Fine," I snarled. "be that way."

He nodded as though he'd been awaiting my permission. "And I will be."

I turned away angrily. He continued. "All right, I'm going to talk to Bilbo Baggins. Try not to blow up the universe, okay?"

"Excellent suggestion," I muttered sourly. He just laughed and plopped two objects on my lap then strode away. I looked down. The two objects were my makeup bag and gun. I wistfully fingered the trigger. I really wanted to use it. No prizes for guessing on who.

The dances were back on now, and Beiber was dancing with a flaxen-curled Hobbit girl. Nearby, I spotted Samwise Gamgee dancing with Rosie Cotton, and I smiled. I always loved that pair. On the side, Frodo was laughing, congratulating himself on his fine matchmaking skills. Still, I thought Sam was remarkably dumb. Even an idiot could see that Rosie liked him.

I also spotted Gandalf's tall frame amid the teensy Hobbits, and laughed. He looked like Gulliver in Lilliput. Suddenly, I heard a bang. I looked to see one of the tents being blasted off the ground by a jet of fire. I panicked for about a millisecond, then I remembered that it was only Merry and Pippin. I had a lot of fun when the dragon swooped low, because I was the only one not panicking. Well, Crosby wasn't, either. He was just sitting there looking obnoxiously bored. Beiber wasn't actually freaking out...he was just looking slightly terrified even though he'd watched the movie. And Washington...he wasn't _panicking_, exactly. He was standing up on a table looking absolutely ridiculous in his Converse and New Era cap waving his sword and yelling at the firework to surrender. I guess he hadn't watched it, being from, what, five billion years ago?

Pretty soon, Bilbo started his speech. I lost track of all the Hobbit names, but they were pretty cool. I was waiting for him to slip on the ring and disappear. But when he stuck his hand in his pocket, he choked. His face turned grey. His eyes bulged. He started trembling all over. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. As the most stupid person in the world could have figured out by now.


	8. Crosby and I Get Ideas

Bilbo dug his hands deeper into his pockets, with a wild, desperate look on his face. He rummaged. He grabbed. He opened his pockets wide and peeked in. He turned them inside out.

Nothing.

He slowly took his hands out of his pockets. His entire body seemed to go slack; he barely remained standing. A look of complete horror and desolation came across his face; the look of a man who has lost everything in an instant. Like a man who has nothing left to live for. Yet mixed in these emotions was the tiniest bit of relief. Just barely there, and ready to bolt at any second. But it was there. Deep down, Bilbo knew that he was free.

The Ring was gone. Where, I didn't know. But one thing was for certain. Bilbo Baggins did not have the One Ring in his possession. Or rather, the One Ring no longer had Bilbo Baggins in it's possession. It was gone.

Who could've taken it? Gandalf? No, Gandalf couldn't touch the Ring. Frodo? But he didn't know. Merry and Pippin, maybe, as a joke, not knowing exactly what they'd swiped? No. If someone had stolen it, I would've known by now. Invisibility, possession, and so on.

Maybe my right-side self had changed the story. Altered it, so Frodo got the Ring early. Or...maybe she'd delivered it straight to Sauron himself. Or Saruman, just to cause headache for me. Maybe she was bored and wanted an alternate ending. Oh god, what a mess...

Bilbo cleared his throat weakly. "Ah...well...you know...but I don't...oh, never mind. Enjoy the rest of the party!" he waved his hand in the general direction of the crowd, then stumbled off, leaving the Hobbits, very confused, to buzz about his odd speech. First all jolly and happy, then pale and stammering in a blink of an eye? Old Bilbo must be going on in age, they murmured. Weakness...hallucinations...

I looked around for Crosby, Beiber and Washington. I quickly spotted the ridiculous New Era cap and it's wearer. Washington was sitting next to Beiber, looking very smug, like he was thinking about how much cooler speech he could have made than Bilbo. Beiber, however, was just sitting there looking completely blank like, "Huh...?" I sighed. Nothing in the peanut, that one.

Suddenly, someone tapped me sharply on the shoulder, causing me to squawk and jump. It was Crosby, standing over me with an insufferably smug smirk on his face.

"Oh, it's you," I snapped. "I'm still mad at you, you know that?"

"Probably," grinned Crosby. "but I don't really care. I came to give you..._this_!" he flicked a hard, shiny object at my face. It gleamed dully as it bounced painfully off my nose into the long grass, where it came to rest.

"_Ouch_," I squealed. "you id-"

Then I realized what he'd thrown at me, what was now lying in the long grass of the Shire as though it were as worthless as a cap off a bottle Merry and Pippin were so fond of. That, if no one picked it up, would lie there until it got trampled into the ground as though it were as insignificant as a pebble. Until the Ringwraiths, the great and terrible Nazgul, came for it and returned it to the Dark Lord Sauron.

_One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all, and in darkness bind them._

Crosby had thrown the One Ring at my face.

I looked at it in silence for a moment, then dove down and snatched it up. It was ice-cold and way heavier than it should've been.

"OmigodCrosbyyouIDIOTwheredid yougetthat?" my words were rushed and fused together in my disbelief. "Ican'tbelieveyoudidthatdoyouknow_how_muchtrouble-"

"Speak English!" demanded Crosby.

In less severe circumstances I would have told him that I was under no obligation to comply with his choice of language, and that since I (more or less) knew five different languages I would be hard pressed indeed to choose the most awkward, flat, poky one (English) when I could choose a more beautiful, flowing one (Arabic) or a more musical-sounding one (Urdu) or a more exotic one (Ukrainian) or even a more elegant one (French). As it so happened, now was not the place nor the time, so I filed the argument away in my mind for another day and concentrated on saving us all.

"The heck with English!" I screeched as quietly as possible. "Sidney Patrick Crosby, you—you could have been tempted, you could've been possessed, you could've _died _a billion things could've happened to you for just _touching _that thing—how'd you get it anyway you insane person-"

"_First _of all," Crosby cut through my tirade. "_you're _touching it and nothing's happening to _you_, and second, I got it by picking Bilbo's pocket. You know, when I was talking to him?"

"You—you—you-" I was completely tongue-tied. _You did WHAT?!_

He looked at the Ring dismissively. "If you ask me, though, that thing's overrated. Heavy, ice-cold, no real shine to speak of. Just a plain old—how many carats do you think that is, anyway? Ten? Fourteen? Can't be more than that-"

"You forgot the part that it can bring the entire world under your hand," I said breathlessly.

His eyes narrowed. "Getting ideas, are we, missie?"

I shuddered. "Ugh, no, _Kid_," I said. To tell you the truth, the only thought that popped into my head at the notion of being Queen Of The World was _oh god, what a chore._ Imagine having to manage THE ENTIRE WORLD. You'd _never_ get even a second of spare time. No sleep, either. Always problems and complaints and plans and worries...geez. No thank you, I'll stick to being a normal citizen.

Suddenly, Crosby snatched the Ring from my grasp. He held it about level with his shoulder so no one else could see it, yet I couldn't reach it. I looked at him and snarled. "Give it _back _you moron-"

He ignored me, and instead studied my face intently. "Annoyance, anger...no desperation...no animalistic desire...no, no...good..._good_!" he murmured to himself, staring directly into my purple-tinged-red eyes.

"Crosby, _give it_-"

"All right, all right, chill. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have any real _desire _for it, you know, as a world-enslaving device or something, or, you know, as your-" he paused.

"My what?" I asked, impatient.

He looked at me for a moment, then altered his voice to be raspy yet squeaky and very, very creepy. "..._precious..."_ he hissed.

I recognized the voice. All of the sudden, I wasn't so keen to have the Ring back anymore. I dropped my arm back to my side. "Oh, no, _no_," I said. "oh, absolutely not. No..."

"Exactly," he said. "but then again, I doubt Gollum _wanted_ to be the disgusting slimy fish-eater he is now. He just...got bewitched by the Ring."

"Yeah," I said weakly. "yeah..."

"But don't worry," Crosby assured me. "there was no sign of actual _desire _for the Ring itself in your face, just annoyance and anger at having something snatched from you from somebody you, er, hate. I think you're pretty much safe." he held the Ring back out at me.

I shrank from it. "No, no, that thing's dangerous. I don't want it."

"Oh, come on," he said. "who'm I supposed to give it to, then? Beiber? Washington?"

"You know, that's an idea," I replied. "Washington's so obsessed with being cool, he doesn't notice anything. And Beiber's so dumb, there's no way he'll be tempted. I doubt he even understands the concept of world domination."

"No, I can't do that," laughed Crosby. "the prez will probably think the Ring's cool and put it on and bring the Nazgul down on us all, or Beiber'll just be like, oh, no, this isn't mine! I'd better return it to it's owner! So he'll just walk off like la dee da dee da straight up to Barad-Dur and hand it to Sauron himself..."

"Then give it to Gandalf!" I cried.

He shook his head. "Sorry, missie, can't do that either. Gandalf can't touch the Ring, remember?"

"Then why can't _you _carry it?" I wailed.

His face darkened. "Well, I feel pretty okay now, but if I think on it, world domination sounds pretty cool to me...like I said, I don't feel too tempted right now, but even Frodo got tempted in the end...should've given it to Sam straight off...I'll be a bit easier, I think...you seem to be the only one who won't get tempted...almost like you consider world domination beneath you...think you're too good..."

It was all really scaring me. "Okay, okay!" I yelped, and took the Ring. It was really, really cold and way heavier than a ring of that size should've been. An evil, sinister kind of heavy.

Crosby's face cleared the instant the Ring parted contact with his skin. I, on the other hand, didn't feel so good. I slipped the Ring into the pocket of my hot pink jeans, where it burned icily against my skin. I hated it.

The usual annoying, smug look took over Crosby's face again. "Well," he said. "Bilbo didn't put the Ring on, so the Nazgul won't be coming tonight. Plenty of time to figure out what to do-"

"Crosby,"I said quietly.

He didn't hear me. "maybe you could—"

"Crosby," I said again, louder.

"-maybe Gandalf—what?" he asked.

"The Nazgul didn't come because Bilbo put the Ring on." I whispered. "They came because Gollum told them where to go."

"You mean-" his face paled. "oh, yeah, I forgot about that part...they tortured him, didn't they?"

Suddenly the Ring burned even colder, if that was even possible. It got even heavier, threatening to rip a hole in the pocket of my jeans. Somehow, without any previous knowledge, I knew what that meant.

The Nazgul were coming.


End file.
